


Nemo Saltat Sobrius

by Dira Sudis (dsudis)



Series: Urbe Aureā [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Dancing, Ghastly Nilfgaardian Party Time, M/M, Snacks & Snack Food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22872136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis
Summary: In which Geralt receives things Emhyr wants to give him, and also goes to a party and does not completely hate it.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Urbe Aureā [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635157
Comments: 198
Kudos: 1105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This matters to absolutely no one but I need you to know that _Nemo_ in the title of the story is pronounced "nemm-oh" not "knee-mo", okay? Okay. _Nemo saltat sobrius_ means _No one dances sober_ with the rest of the phrase continuing: _unless he is insane._
> 
> Many thanks to Cyan & Ylixia for beta and Quarra, xantissa, and everyone else who's encouraged this directly or by commenting on "Quid Pro Quo" in the last ten months. I ... did not mean for the first quick little followup story to be 80% of the length of the getting-together fic but here we are.
> 
> NETFLIX WITCHER FANS: this fic/series/entire pairing is a plot spoiler from the vantage point of the end of Season 1. Caveat lector.

Geralt couldn't remember the last time it had taken so long to get around to properly fucking, or being fucked by, someone he was fucking. Eskel, probably, although they'd hardly known what real fucking even _was_ , and could only steal the necessary privacy in stray moments here and there, between the intensity of training and sharing a room with four other boys every night.

But that had been a long damn time ago. Here and now, he'd been sleeping in Emhyr's bed and getting off with him for the better part of a week. Still, every attempt Geralt made to offer Emhyr something more than Geralt's mouth or hand was met with, "Yes, yes, we'll get to that." 

Since Emhyr never left an opening for his opponent to exploit when he could demolish them instead, he usually followed up the deflection with a barrage of orgasms. Geralt inevitably forgot why he'd even been asking by the time that was over. 

So it wasn't like Geralt had anything to _complain_ about. It was just strange.

Not a bad kind of strange, though, he thought. Every time Emhyr put him off until later was a reminder that there was going to _be_ a later. Geralt wouldn't finish a contract and move on, never to see Emhyr again; Emhyr had known Geralt long enough to know exactly what he was getting and still, somehow, seemed to want Geralt in his bed and in his palace. 

He didn't even seem to mind Geralt wandering around the halls and through the gardens and prowling whichever of Emhyr's offices he happened to be in, making all the scribes and secretaries quake.

"It's good for them," Emhyr said. "And if they start making mistakes just because there's a witcher in the vicinity they certainly don't deserve their positions. I might as well find that out sooner than later."

Geralt couldn't argue with Emhyr's logic, and put a little less effort into not frightening the locals after that. They got very Nilfgaardian at him in return, so Geralt figured they would keep their jobs after all. 

And then came the day when Emhyr came out to train with his guards and Geralt and Ciri--Tuesday again, Geralt realized. Tuesday must be the day he found it possible to spare the time. It had been a week exactly since Geralt started all of this by being so obvious about staring at Emhyr's arse while he sparred that Emhyr had thought the time was right to suggest doing more than looking, and Geralt had...

Well, it had all worked itself out within the turning of a day, so no harm done. And now the turning of a week brought them back to the training yard, and Geralt wasn't even bothering to pretend not to stare when Emhyr had a bout. They had quickly given up on attempting to both fight at the same time, as it would have been hazardous to everyone. 

Neither of them suggested sparring with each other, which would have been hazardous in an entirely different way.

Geralt thought about what it would be like, if they were alone somewhere more private than the training yard. If he were the one crossing swords with Emhyr... 

Ciri elbowed him and Geralt shut off that thought. Ciri watching him watch Emhyr was bad enough, never mind Ciri catching him daydreaming. He didn't have to look over to know she was barely suppressing a giggle, or worse, _commentary_.

"Glad you find us so entertaining," Geralt murmured, trying for stern and dry, but his lips kept curling up at the corners. 

"Not nearly as glad as I am," Ciri replied easily. 

Geralt shook his head but didn't even try to argue. 

When his own turn came to spar, he was aware of Emhyr's eyes on him, and pushed himself a little harder than he had to, just to make each practice bout something worth watching. He thought Emhyr was doing the same, toying with his opponents in ways he had to know Geralt would notice, showing off in ways Geralt would appreciate. 

It was the middle of July by now, and they'd have been sweaty by the end of training even if they'd taken it easy on themselves; as it was Geralt was dripping, and even Emhyr was visibly disheveled. Geralt was mentally plotting the shortest route to his rooms, hopeful that the rarely-seen but apparently all-seeing servants would have intuited that he would want a cool bath this afternoon and he wouldn't have to wait for it to be fetched for him.

But where he expected his path to diverge from Emhyr's, and the main body of the guardsmen, Emhyr said, "With me, Geralt."

Geralt moved to his side without a thought, then looked around at where they were going. He'd had time, wandering with the appearance of aimlessness and Nordling ignorance, to explore a great deal of the palace since his arrival. He had a good mental map of it; even the parts he hadn't yet explored were clearly marked with his best guesses. They were headed toward one of those patches of uncertainty now.

According to Geralt's best guess, Emhyr was leading him toward the baths used by courtiers and particularly favored servants. It was, difficult though it was for Geralt to imagine, probably where Mererid went to unwind and let his hair down. 

It was also, therefore, full of people Emhyr probably wouldn't be casually naked around. They were _definitely_ not the kind of people Emhyr would want himself and Geralt naked around at the same time, unless Geralt had missed a _lot_ about Nilfgaardian bathing customs. 

But just as the air began to turn steamy and filled with the smell of astringent herbs, Emhyr turned aside, clearly not moving toward the entrance to the baths. They headed down a short corridor to an unassuming door, and once Geralt passed through he knew why they didn't bother to post a guard outside; he could feel the press of protective magic on his skin, layers upon layers of wards sunk into the stones and the foundations, maybe all the way down to the spring that fed water to these baths. This was ancient stuff, gods ready to wreak vengeance on those who broke the laws of hospitality. 

Emhyr didn't seem to notice it. Geralt wasn't sure if that was because Emhyr wasn't as sensitive to magic as he was, or because Emhyr was used to moving through a world criss-crossed with invisible lines and layers of power, and this was just another version of the same thing.

In any case, Emhyr led him along another plain corridor, passing two closed doors on the right side, until he reached a doorway covered by a heavy drapery, and drew it aside to step through. The steamy bath smell rolled through, though more hot water and minerals than any perfume smell of soaps and oils.

Geralt stepped through the doorway on Emhyr's heels, and stopped dead.

They were in a large bathing chamber with various pools and tubs of water, but Geralt almost couldn't see anything at all for a moment because _everything was shining_. Even when his eyes adjusted to the brilliant golden light he was a little dazed by all the things there were to see. 

The room was tiled, floor and walls and ceiling and down into all the pools of water, in shades of blue and green laced with gold. The tiles seemed to be fitted into a framework of gold, like the glass panes of the conservatory into the iron that supported them. There were designs--mostly suns, of course, but also a huge mosaic design covering two walls that seemed to be some sort of story about how life flourished only where the sun met water: rain, or rivers, or the sea. 

He thought to look up, finally, because there were no torches or lanterns, and he discovered that among the tiles of the ceiling were crystal slabs that glowed with something he would swear was sunlight, though he also would have sworn there were a few levels of palace above their heads.

"It's done with mirrors," Emhyr said, and Geralt finally focused on the man who stood there watching him take it all in. Emhyr was smiling very slightly, but it was an expression Geralt had seen a lot in the past week and tentatively identified as _enjoying Geralt enjoying something_. 

"The crystals," Emhyr said, gesturing upward. "They let in sunlight during the day, moonlight and starlight at night. There is some arrangement of mirrors to bring the light down here, and the crystals strengthen it. When one bathes at night, the room looks much more blue than gold."

Geralt just stared around, feeling freshly bewildered by everything around him. He'd been in the palace for nearly a month now, and this was the first time he'd realized how much he had started to get used to it. The rooms that had seemed bizarrely opulent had become just rooms, and the Emperor of Nilfgaard had become someone very human, who Geralt shared a bed with. 

This jewel box of a bathing room brought the absurd wealth of Nilfgaard into focus again, and Emhyr was just... casually stripping his shirt off in the center of it, like it was nothing. Like having some elaborate arrangement of mirrors and crystals to light this room was no different from having a sufficient number of candles around.

"They did all that for _baths_?"

Emhyr dropped his shirt on a bench and came over to tug at the hem of Geralt's shirt. Geralt didn't know what to do but raise his arms and let Emhyr take it off him. 

"Not for baths, as such," Emhyr said. "They did all that for the glory of the Great Sun and the purification of the High Priest of the Great Sun." Emhyr gave a little shrug, a wry twist to his mouth. "Many generations ago; all that comes down to us after all these years is to enjoy it."

Geralt raised his eyebrows, recalling what little Emhyr had said of his High Priestly duties. "Except for a week in the winter?"

"Indeed," Emhyr said. "And quite a bit of ritual purification before the equinoxes, but this is one of the many weeks of the year in which it's just a very well-appointed place to bathe--if you care to join me?" He dropped Geralt's shirt over his own on the bench and sat down beside the heap of sweat-soaked linen to take his boots off. 

Geralt sighed and shook his head as he sat down beside him, still looking around at all the gleaming... everything. He grabbed their shirts to move them out of his way, and the touch of the damp cloth, the body-warm brush of his arm against Emhyr's, made him abruptly aware of a scent his nose had gotten accustomed to and then ignored, sometime in the last hour.

He could smell Emhyr, warm from training in the summer sun. Emhyr had sweated off any trace of soap or scent he'd carried before his hour with a sword, and now he just smelled _human_ and _present_. It was something Geralt usually only got to enjoy after they'd had sex, and not even always then, not to this degree; Emhyr got him off plenty, but didn't even attempt to keep pace. Geralt was a lot more likely to break a sweat in bed than Emhyr was.

Geralt slid off the bench, twisting as he hit his knees; Emhyr's thighs parted for him, and he let out a little amused puff of breath, nothing Geralt bothered to notice while he was burying his face against Emhyr's groin and breathing him in. Emhyr's cock twitched and his thighs tensed, though he wasn't hard yet--which was fine, because Geralt didn't even know if he meant this to be a sex thing. He just craved the reality of him, the taste and feel and scent of Emhyr's _body_ , the animal ruled by the man buried under all the imperial everything.

If it felt particularly urgent right now, surrounded by all this gleaming evidence of the centuries of wealth and power that flowed down into Emhyr to make him what he was, well. Maybe that was no surprise. For all that Geralt followed Emhyr around during his working days, there were places he _didn't_ follow: throne rooms and formal dinners and audiences, all the places where Emhyr was The Emperor at full force.

That was the opposite of what he was here, now, warm and nearly bare under Geralt's hands, alone with him. His alone, just for this hour carved out from all the rest.

Emhyr's hand came down on top of his head, fingers ruffling his hair and rubbing at his scalp. His voice was warm, despite the heavy dose of irony in his tone, when he said, "I begin to suspect that I've had entirely the wrong end of the stick in my thinking about witchers' senses and personal hygiene."

Geralt tipped his head back--Emhyr let him, but kept his hand where it was, resting on his hair. Geralt frowned up at Emhyr for a few seconds, thinking of just _how_ much like nothing Emhyr tended to smell, the sharp mint taste that was nearly always in his mouth when they'd been apart for a few hours, or when Geralt woke in his bed to watch him dress and interrupted him for a kiss.

He snorted, relaxing into a smile as he realized that Emhyr was going to indulge him--that he'd been trying to, the wrong way around, and now was simply accepting that his attempt had failed.

Well, if Emhyr couldn't recognize when he'd made a mistake and change tack accordingly, they wouldn't be here. Still, it was a strange thrill to see him doing it again, now, for this, which plenty of less fastidious humans found unpleasant. Yen--but Geralt wasn't going to think of her here, now, when he could be enjoying what he had in front of him.

"If I minded the smell of unwashed men," Geralt pointed out dryly, "I'd have choked to death on it before I ever had a chance to die in the Trials, and I wouldn't have gotten laid anytime before the age of nineteen."

Something flickered in Emhyr's eyes at that, but it vanished into a fond expression as he said lightly, "You did get an early start, didn't you?"

Geralt realized that Emhyr had either gotten a pretty early start himself and then spent years and years alone with his curse before he dared to try again, or he'd been a virginal boy at thirteen, and still a virgin until whenever he got enough control over the curse to dare to seek someone out. Until _Pavetta_? 

He couldn't think which would have been worse, and pushed the whole thought away, as deliberately as Emhyr had set aside whatever had flashed through his eyes a moment ago. Geralt said calmly, "Earlier than some, yeah. How early depends on what counts as starting."

Emhyr's eyebrows twitched up. "First kiss is a common milestone. I had mine... not far from here, when I was twelve."

Geralt dropped his gaze, trying to make that fit in his head with what he thought they'd been talking about, which was _sex_. 

But that was how other people worked, wasn't it? That was _why_ you weren't supposed to have sex with someone you thought of as a brother--because sex was supposed to go with love, or at least the possibility of it, and love, as Emhyr had put into words for him, required a separateness. Reaching out to someone new, bridging a distance. 

Kissing was the first little step toward that. It was a step you could take at twelve and not have to carry it further, or not right away, any more than he and Eskel had gone from curious touches to fucking all at once.

He tried to imagine if his first time getting laid outside Kaer Morhen--a friendly professional woman not quite twice his age in Ard Carraigh--had been his _first time_. It would have been a lot more nerve-wracking that way; he wasn't sure he'd like sex nearly as much as he did if he hadn't had years of it with Eskel, and others who were equally a part of his home even if he wasn't as close to them. 

He didn't know how anyone would try it out if right from the earliest beginning it had to mean something more or less opposite to _you're safe with me, we're safe at home, we're both so safe we can afford to be distracted and defenseless for the sake of something that feels good._ How could the risk possibly be worth the reward?

"A more complicated question than I realized," Emhyr said, rubbing his fingers against Geralt's scalp again, reminding him of the hand still resting on his head. It made him aware, too, of where he was--not just in the Emperor's gold-tiled bathing chamber, but at the center of the power of the most powerful man in the world, who had told him in so many words, _You're safe with me._

They were both very safe here; he could afford to be distracted with Emhyr. 

Geralt looked up again, smiling crookedly. "Just one of those things witchers do differently. Didn't have my first kiss until I was sixteen or so, but I'd already tried all the sex things we could think of by then."

Emhyr's expression didn't change, that time, and Geralt suspected that that was because he was bracing himself for it--but then if sex was a dangerous thing you did with strangers, it would be pretty disturbing to think of someone doing it very young. He'd never really felt Ciri was old enough to be trying it, certainly. 

"What made you try it then?" Emhyr sounded genuinely curious. "Was it the last new thing you could come up with?"

Emhyr's _you_ was plural; Emhyr thought his first kiss must have been with Eskel, because most of his first sex stuff was. 

Geralt shook his head slightly. "Not Eskel, another witcher. It was his idea. Eskel and I didn't kiss then, not at Kaer Morhen. Not until..." 

Geralt wrinkled his nose, trying to remember. There had been a few different times that had all felt like the first time after, because they'd kept meaning to stop and be proper adults, only to give in and go to bed together again some time later. It had been one of those times, but he couldn't remember which--not the first-first, he didn't think. That time they'd still been insisting to themselves that it was only for the winter, only because they were stuck at Kaer Morhen with no women for a hundred miles.

"After we were out on the Path," Geralt said with a shrug. "I don't remember how long exactly, but it had been years by then. But it's nice, and we'd gotten used to kissing going with sex with other people, so after that we did, when we were together like that."

"Mm," Emhyr said, smirking a little. He closed a hand on the back of Geralt's neck to keep him still and leaned in for a kiss, so light and teasing that Geralt automatically tried to chase the contact when Emhyr pulled away, only to have Emhyr's grip tighten sternly, keeping him in place. "Something you've gotten used to, is it? So good of you to indulge your partners."

Emhyr wasn't even pretending to be offended, just parroting the lines, so Geralt relaxed into it, letting himself be thoroughly kissed. 

He was feeling a little dazed with it when Emhyr pulled back; Geralt drew a deep breath and was overwhelmed all over again with the smell-taste of Emhyr's body curling down over him. He felt his mouth fall further open, and Emhyr's gaze dropped to it, his eyes dark with hunger. 

"Since, as we've established," Emhyr said, and Geralt could only gaze at him and let the multi-syllable word wash over him, Emhyr's voice gone a little deeper and rumblier than usual, "I have had things a bit backward, I believe an amendment to the order of events is called for."

Geralt blinked at him for a few seconds, finally separating meaning from the sound of Emhyr's voice that he could only hear at first as _sex sex sex yes now yes_ , throbbing in time to the beat of his heart, the growing stiffness in his cock. "Is there an order of events to amend, then?"

"Naturally," Emhyr murmured, twining his fingers into Geralt's hair to get a firmer grip. "You didn't think I brought you down here without a _plan_ , did you, my dear witcher?"

"When you put it like that," Geralt said, tilting his head back into Emhyr's grip, showing his throat and letting his eyes sag nearly shut, letting Emhyr see exactly what he did to him, with his grip and his particular endearments, "it does sound pretty unlikely."

"Just so," Emhyr agreed. "Thus I believe I'll fuck you first, and then we'll enjoy the baths afterward, hm?"

Geralt shuddered, and the room seemed to brighten as his cock reached full, nearly painful hardness; Emhyr's lips quirked up--he'd mentioned before how obvious it was, when a witcher's pupils widened. Geralt had to lick his lips and swallow before he could manage to say, "Yes. Please."

Emhyr's grip on his hair tightened just a fraction further, tilting Geralt's head back to a sharper angle, baring his throat yet more thoroughly. Geralt was dimly aware that he was breathing through his open mouth, staring up at Emhyr's dark eyes staring down just as intently at him. The hot human smell of Emhyr was thick with arousal now, his body temperature rising again when he'd started to cool down from training. Geralt breathed it in eagerly, something between a perfume and a drug.

"Clothes off, then," Emhyr finally said, and all at once he released his grip and stood, stepping nimbly around Geralt and away. 

Geralt knelt there staring at the wall and the bench and the place where Emhyr wasn't even though his scent still lingered in Geralt's nose. His brain spun for a moment like a mill wheel come loose from its stone, until Emhyr said from altogether too far away behind him, "Geralt. Take your clothes off so I can fuck you, if you please."

Emhyr's tone was stern, but concealing humor, not irritation. Geralt grinned and jumped up to his feet, bending at the waist to tug his boots off rather than sitting down again. At long last he knew Emhyr would be looking properly, so he wouldn't miss any opportunity he got to put on a show before Emhyr took over entirely again.

He heard an appreciative little noise from Emhyr, and grinned to himself as he continued stripping with his back turned. He only looked back over his shoulder when he was entirely naked, his clothes all neatly piled on the bench, his boots tucked just under it. 

Emhyr was also naked, one hand shamelessly curled around his cock as he leaned against one side of an archway leading to some other room. When Geralt met his eyes, his appreciative look warmed into amusement, and he tilted his head through the archway. "Come. Bath or no, I don't intend to fuck you for the first time on the floor."

"Well, we could always use the bench," Geralt pointed out, though he was already moving in Emhyr's direction as he said it; it would be less precarious than a lot of places Geralt had fucked, but he knew Emhyr would insist on both of them being _comfortable_.

Emhyr turned away before Geralt reached him, leading the way into another chamber, lit with the same impossible sunlight as the bathing chamber, but also supplied with a hearth that ran nearly the entire length of one wall--no fire, just now, but Geralt could see it would be welcome on any day cooler than this one. 

A broad couch in front of it was covered with cushions, all in shades of blue and green and embroidered in gold. It wasn't quite as formidable as the great golden bed in Emhyr's rooms, but it wasn't as comfortably almost-ordinary as the bed he--they--actually slept and fucked in, either. 

Emhyr didn't seem to see the difference; he walked right over to it and started rearranging the coverings as casually as he did the sheets and pillows on his bed. Geralt followed, stopping just at his flank, and Emhyr reached back for him without looking, keeping him close so that they brushed against each other as Emhyr turned to face him, and Emhyr's scent and the heat of his skin and his knowing smirk wiped all other considerations from Geralt's mind again. 

Who cared what the damn couch looked like: Emhyr was going to fuck him on it. _Finally._

Emhyr's gaze raked up and down Geralt's body, but he still barely touched, just that hand on his arm keeping him still. When he met Geralt's eyes again, he said, "I suppose I needn't ask whether you can hold any particular position for as long as I wish you to?"

Geralt snorted and shook his head. "At your service."

"On your back, then," Emhyr said, twisting out of Geralt's way and giving him a little push toward the couch. 

Geralt went, draping himself over the cushions in the way Emhyr seemed to have intended, his head and shoulders propped against one of the curved-up ends of the couch, his hips propped up on pillows. He let his legs fall wide open, propping a heel on either side of the couch's frame, and tucked one arm behind his head as he looked up at Emhyr with what he was pretty sure was his most obnoxious attempt at an innocent expression. 

Emhyr responded with a snort and a headshake, but leaned over Geralt for a kiss before he settled himself on the padded surface of the couch between Geralt's legs. His gaze stayed on Geralt's face, though his hands found the inside of Geralt's thighs and stroked up unhesitatingly. His thumbs brushed just short of where they ought to be and then his hands ran back down, still unhurried, while Emhyr continued to watch Geralt's face.

Geralt cracked first, which he'd known he would. He groaned and tipped his head back, shutting his eyes. "You gonna make me beg, Your Majesty?"

"No, you've already done quite enough of that," Emhyr said dryly. 

That wasn't exactly how Geralt would describe his _hey you know you could be fucking me right now_ offers of the last several days, but arguing wasn't going to get them there any faster. "Just gonna make me crazy, then. Got it."

"Mm," Emhyr's caressing hands moved back up, this time coming to rest on his pelvis, on either side of his dick, which twitched at the not-quite touch. "No, if nothing else has succeeded in the last hundred years, I don't imagine I will either."

Geralt bit his lip and didn't say, _Are you sure nothing has?_ or worse, _Oh, you could if you wanted to_.

Emhyr leaned over him, so near that Geralt opened his eyes, tilting his head up for a kiss--but Emhyr was already kneeling up again, with a beautifully decorated little salve pot in his hand. There was an abstract swirling design of gold on the deep blue shining surface of the pot, and Geralt thought of some artisan painstakingly decorating a pot pretty enough to hold slick for the imperial cock. He had to let his head fall back as he laughed, stopping only when he felt a slick touch just behind his balls, and Emhyr's other hand pressing warm and firm on the back of his thigh, adjusting his position.

Geralt curled his hips up helpfully, letting the leg Emhyr wasn't guiding loll off the couch. Emhyr made a noise that sounded exasperated, belied by the way his fingers clenched on Geralt's thigh and a little shudder ran through him. Geralt smirked but said nothing; Emhyr would find out everything he'd been missing out on soon enough.

Emhyr's gaze ticked back and forth from his own hand between Geralt's thighs to Geralt's face, far too much on his own tempo to ever seem like he was _looking away_ even if Geralt met his eyes every time he looked. Geralt couldn't take his eyes off Emhyr's face; he saw the slight tension of resolution around his eyes just before he felt the steady, unhesitating pressure of a slick finger against his hole. 

Geralt exhaled, exerting that tricky bit of muscle control--his witcher's strength extended there too, and made it nearly impossible for anyone else to loosen him up if he wasn't putting some effort into cooperating--and then Emhyr was touching him from the inside. Emhyr's expression went distant, his lips parting, at however that felt from his side; Geralt knew his own expression was more of a smirk, because, really, _finally_. 

Then Emhyr's expression sharpened into something smugly predatory, and Geralt bit back a whimper even before Emhyr started stroking. Geralt didn't think he was doing anything particularly exotic in terms of where and how he touched, except that Geralt was so wound up with wanting this that every nerve was already quivering for it. And then, too, he didn't think anyone had ever watched him quite like that while they did this, entirely intent on his every flicker of reaction, chasing every response to make it better. Emhyr might not have any actual magic to use for this, but there was an unearthly power in the sheer force of his attention.

Geralt couldn't quite track what Emhyr was doing--he was too busy feeling it all, and watching Emhyr watching him. But he was aware of the slight extra stretch of a second finger, and he felt the way his body yielded almost effortlessly. He wanted this badly enough that it permeated through every cell of his body, and he complied with every touch without having to think at all. 

"You can," Geralt managed, when he knew it was true and also felt the urge rising to shove his own fingers in alongside Emhyr's to make the point. "It's fine, it's enough, come on."

"Not too tight?" Emhyr said, with no particular emphasis, but Geralt felt a sudden full-body flash of shame and something embarrassingly like delight--because Emhyr remembered what Geralt had said that night, a week ago, a thousand years ago. _A witcher's always virgin-tight. Up to you if that's a drawback or not._ And so Emhyr was being _careful_ with him.

Geralt shook his head, forcing himself to meet Emhyr's gaze. "It's-- _ah_ \--easier to relax when..."

Emhyr raised his eyebrows and stilled his fingers, waiting.

"When I want it this bad," Geralt said. "You win, you made me wait and now--" Emhyr twisted his fingers, crooking them just so, and Geralt lost his breath, thought his heart might have skipped a beat. " _Fuck_ me, Your Majesty, if you would be so kind. _Please._ "

"Mm," Emhyr said, grinding his fingers in deep, knuckles pressing against the rim of Geralt's hole. "That does seem like a reasonable request, my dear witcher. And you have been patient, in your fashion."

Geralt parted his lips to ask what _his fashion_ was, but then several strategies occurred to him which he could have used to move things along if he was really determined to, so Emhyr had a point. Emhyr was watching his face; he smiled a little when Geralt shut his mouth, and then looked down to watch his own hand as he withdrew his fingers from Geralt's ass.

He kept his head down, watching with a lot more concentration than could possibly be required as he slicked himself up, and in that instant when he wasn't caught in the white-hot glare of Emhyr's focus, Geralt realized that Emhyr probably hadn't fucked anyone in a long time. Certainly not anyone he... cared about at all. 

So maybe he hadn't been stalling only to make Geralt crazy; maybe he'd needed a week--and now, just one more minute--to steel himself. 

In the next second Emhyr lunged forward, bracing himself over Geralt just to press a startlingly soft kiss to his lips, and Geralt figured that that meant he was right. Then he stopped thinking about anything at all, because Emhyr shifted position and Geralt felt the thick pressure at his hole, felt Emhyr pushing inside him. Emhyr had pulled back a little but he was watching Geralt's face now, and Geralt had to close his eyes as his mouth fell open.

"Geralt," Emhyr murmured, low enough to be nearly a growl, and Geralt snapped his mouth shut and curled one leg around Emhyr's hips but kept his eyes shut. Emhyr ran a knuckle down Geralt's jaw as he pressed fully inside, and--it wasn't that he was so huge, physically, but still there was something about it that made Geralt feel like he didn't have room to draw a full breath.

"My dear," Emhyr said, and took so long to add the last word to that phrase that Geralt finally did open his eyes, and then Emhyr only smiled a little and said nothing at all.

Geralt felt half hypnotized by his gaze, by the weight of Emhyr over him that was more than just the mass of his body, the press of him inside. "Please," Geralt said, barely more than a whisper.

"Of course," Emhyr returned, and drew back to thrust in again.

It was an effort to keep his eyes open, but Geralt wasn't going to be the first to look away. He reached out instead, cupping one hand to Emhyr's cheek--and Emhyr closed his eyes, turning into the touch to press his lips to Geralt's sword calluses. 

"Yeah," Geralt said. "Yeah, come on. I'm all yours."

Emhyr's eyes opened to slits. "Are you," he murmured, and bit lightly at the heel of Geralt's hand as he thrust in again, hard enough to make Geralt tip his head back on a groan. Then again, and again, irregularly at first, like he was testing Geralt's responses, but soon he settled into a rhythm.

When it was predictable, Geralt could just lie back and enjoy it, and even spare a little attention for really watching Emhyr's face. If he was right...

And he was. He watched Emhyr getting drawn into fucking him, losing his perfect self-control. Like this, he couldn't focus completely on driving Geralt out of his mind with terrifying military precision. He was feeling this every bit as much as Geralt was, at the same time, letting Geralt into him every bit as much as Geralt was letting Emhyr inside.

Geralt let his eyes fall shut, let himself make noise the way Emhyr liked, and was rewarded with the sound of Emhyr's own breath going ragged, little groans escaping him when Geralt tightened on his cock. Emhyr's body temperature, which had never fully come down from the practice session, was rising again to a fever pitch, the smell of him filling the humid air. Sweat dripped down onto Geralt and he had to open his eyes again to see Emhyr's face, flushed bright and twisted as he struggled between control and pleasure. A few locks of his hair had fallen down, swinging with every thrust and half concealing his face.

Geralt took his hand off Emhyr's cheek just to catch those sweaty strands and tuck them back, and Emhyr's eyes opened then, glittering dangerously bright.

His ferocity was a part of what Emhyr was forever holding back, even if it wasn't the same kind as a witcher's. Emhyr bared his teeth, and Geralt bared his right back, laughing at the same time as the pleasure wound him up until he felt like he was floating free of anything else. 

Emhyr laughed back, a sharp bark of a sound that coincided with his hips hammering in harder. He had to be getting close, but of course Emhyr was determined to make Geralt come first; his cock was hitting just the right spot at the same time Emhyr's hand closed on Geralt, and Geralt laughed helplessly all the way over the edge.

He kept his hand on Emhyr's cheek, riding out the last few hard thrusts, until Emhyr followed him down. 

* * *

Emhyr let himself rest on Geralt's chest for a moment, coming down from the particular peak that was fucking a witcher to their mutual completion. It was... at least as intense as he had imagined it might be. Geralt seemed content to lie under him, running his fingers through Emhyr's sweat-damp hair, so Emhyr would take the opportunity to catch his breath and regain some semblance of equilibrium. 

The careless affection, like the effervescent joy they shared, laughing in the middle of sex, was something Emhyr couldn't let himself focus on for more than a moment at a time. After a week of Geralt absently doling out this sort of touch, or his blithe happiness, whenever Emhyr was within his reach, it still felt like altogether too much of... something. 

Emhyr turned his mind away from that, toward anything else. His drifting thoughts followed the track that had become well-worn in the last few days. When his breathing steadied, and Geralt had advanced to scratching gently at Emhyr's scalp, utterly relaxed under him, it seemed as good a time as he was going to get to actually broach the topic. That had been part of the plan for this afternoon, even if the order of events was being thoroughly rearranged.

"Tomorrow night," Emhyr started, and got no further before Geralt's body under him jolted with a huff of near-silent laughter. It made Geralt tighten around Emhyr's softening cock, still inside him, and Emhyr's breath caught at the sensation.

Geralt spoke before Emhyr could, sounding actually delighted as he said, "That's why! You were saving it up to bribe me!"

Emhyr drew away enough to look Geralt in the eye, letting his cock slip free in the process. 

Geralt was smiling, looking as genuinely pleased as he'd sounded; he tugged Emhyr into a kiss and then lay back. He folded his arms behind his head, and curled both his legs firmly around Emhyr's hips. "Tomorrow night? Something's happening?"

Emhyr sighed, shook his head, and lay back down on Geralt's chest. "A ball. I must attend, and Cirilla will be there as well. We will open the dancing, so if that's a scene you care to witness..."

Geralt's fingers stirred through his hair again. "Am I gonna find my clothes for it laid out when I go back to my rooms?"

" _Tomorrow_ night," Emhyr said. "I thought the tailor could call on you today and see if you cared to make any adjustments. Ciri's led a bit of a trend for more colorful formalwear among the young ladies and gentlemen of her age. If you care to be even more ostentatiously Northern, it will not come as a surprise to anyone."

Geralt's hand stilled. "Do people know? Will they..."

"Yes," Emhyr said without hesitation. "Anyone who doubts what you are to me will have it confirmed beyond question if you attend a ball in my company. If you'd rather not subject yourself to gossip..."

"Pff." Geralt's hand resumed its petting motion as if propelled by the scornful sound. "I mean, I assume you're not going to tell me I have to make any of them _like_ me."

Emhyr vented his own snort at the thought. "No. Some doubtless will, or will affect to, but you need not exert yourself to be pleasant. I would appreciate it if you did not exert yourself to be offensive, but I'm sure there will be many attempts to provoke you. If you choose to accompany me, that is."

"Hm. Will there be food? That I can eat instead of just staring at it while people talk at me?"

Emhyr smiled. He could shower all the luxuries he could imagine on Geralt, but his desires were so far imperturbably simple. "I shall make sure one of the servers is assigned to offer you a tray periodically, wherever you happen to be."

"Well," Geralt ran his hand down Emhyr's neck to his back, petting with the whole flat of his hand up and down Emhyr's spine. "Can't see any reason to say no, then. As long as you give me another ten minutes before we go wash up."

Emhyr shifted his position just a little and let himself rub his cheek against Geralt's chest when Geralt resumed the slow petting motion of his hand. "I believe I could see my way to allow you fifteen."

"With bells on, then," Geralt agreed.


	2. Chapter 2

The next afternoon, Mererid came to Emhyr while he was working alone--or what qualified as alone, for an emperor outside his private chambers. He was only attended by a few guards and a scribe waiting to be needed, all of whom assiduously pretended to be part of the furniture. 

Emhyr could remember accepting that pretense as a child; servants and guards had been nearly invisible to him. These days he could not help but be aware of exactly where everyone around him was, but he pretended right along with them and it all worked out well enough. Ciri did the same; perhaps her children would have the luxury of not noticing, if she did not deliberately train it out of them early on.

"Your Majesty," Mererid murmured. "Would you care to see a sketch of the garments Sir Geralt will be wearing tonight?"

"Should I be concerned about them?" Emhyr asked, allowing his tone to express that the answer was _no_ unless Geralt was in danger of somehow inciting civil war with his doublet.

"No, a point of interest only," Mererid assured him promptly. "He will be quite... visible. And on that topic--as you requested."

Mererid set down a flat case of polished wood at Emhyr's hand. "The jewelers adjusted the proportions to accommodate the gentleman's shoulder measurements, and they hope the result will give satisfaction."

Emhyr had no doubt that Mererid would have hounded them until it was in fact satisfactory, but he couldn't resist looking to see how they'd done it. He unlatched the case and opened it to reveal the coiled links of heavy platinum, shining nearly white, with black roundels between them to space them out, leading to the central pendant, as big as Emhyr's palm.

There had been a few rather elderly ladies of his grandfather's generation--dowagers, essentially--who had been entitled to wear the regalia of this Order when Emhyr was a child, but they had gone the way of the rest of the royal family. Geralt would be the first to wear it in a very long time.

If he consented to wear it. But Emhyr thought that, having agreed with such a good will to everything else, he wouldn't deny Emhyr this. Emhyr probably wouldn't even have to explain the privilege the Order would earn him, though he couldn't help feeling an absurd warm anticipation of Geralt being genuinely pleased at that part.

"Very good," Emhyr said. "Leave this, I'll bring it myself."

Mererid bowed slightly and withdrew without comment. Emhyr ran a finger lightly over the satin-smooth metalwork and then closed the case and forced himself to focus on his daily tasks for another hour.

* * *

It turned out that custom-made clothes, like custom-made armor, were better than you thought they could be until you'd worn them. The imperial tailor hadn't batted an eyelash when Geralt demonstrated how much he wanted to be able to move his arms, and had delivered him a knee-length surcoat and matching doublet with the shoulders and sleeves cut so that he could move any way he wanted to without being uncomfortable or disarranging his clothes, which at least to Geralt's eye looked just as smooth and perfect as any he'd ever worn.

At that point he didn't even mind that it was made of a very slightly shiny silk, adorned with tiny silvery starburst buttons down the front and similar embroidered starbursts around his wrists and down at the hem. The silk was blue--not as bright as what he'd have worn in Skellige, but a clear rich shade that was just the color of the sky at the last moment before blue became black, when the last light was still lingering in the bowl of the sky and the first stars were coming out. 

It was very definitely not the black or brown most Nilfgaardians wore, but he didn't think it would strike Emhyr as garish. The tailor had assured him that some of Ciri's "set" would be wearing brighter colors still. Ciri herself would be wearing silver and white tonight--if Emhyr wore his usual black, they'd make a hell of a picture, dancing together.

Geralt was still staring at himself in a mirror while moving his arms through sword forms minus the sword--the one thing missing from his fancy Nilfgaardian clothes--when someone tapped at his door.

"Yeah?"

One of the footmen who Geralt had occasionally managed to catch sight of delivering his food or clothes or bath opened the door just enough to speak to him. "The Emperor requests you join him in his rooms."

"Requests, huh?" The footman just looked bland at him, not rising to the bait, so Geralt guessed that today also wasn't going to be the day he got the guy to speak to him like a person and maybe tell Geralt his name.

Geralt said, "I'm on my way, then," and the footman nodded and slipped away, leaving Geralt to find his own way down a single corridor to Emhyr's rooms.

Emhyr was there in the first room off the corridor, a sitting room where they read or played Gwent sometimes. Emhyr was standing beside the table they used for cards, wearing black as Geralt had expected, though a very polished version of it, with black-on-black embroidery and glittery bits that Geralt suspected were _actual diamonds_. There was a big flat wooden case--the size of a chess board but deeper than that--on the table, and Geralt didn't think Emhyr had called him down here to play a game or two before they went to the fancy party.

"I have this feeling like I just got lured into an ambush," Geralt said, though lightly enough that Emhyr would know Geralt didn't mean it in a _really_ bad way.

"Not at all," Emhyr said, stepping away from the table, flipping his hand at the case on it like it was nothing. "The master of protocol wanted me to do this in public. _That_ would have been an ambush. This is an offer, from me to you, in private." 

Emhyr's mouth quirked into a little smile and he added dryly, "You did say you didn't mind me giving you things."

Geralt glanced at the case again, the satin-smooth shine of it and the little golden clasp shaped like a sun. "At least tell me what it is?"

"What's in the box is only the outward sign of it," Emhyr said, taking another step closer to Geralt and pausing to look him over appreciatively. Geralt had gotten that much right, at least. "What I'm really offering you is membership in the Order of the Moon."

Geralt blinked at him. "Is that... some kind of secret society?"

Emhyr snorted, eyes crinkling up in amusement. "No, quite the opposite. It's an order of chivalry--it's a bit like knighting you, but into a special circle of knights. You would be the only living member, in fact, if you accept."

Geralt narrowed his eyes. "Why."

"Well, there might be a few others if the Usurper hadn't murdered them, or my father might have lived to bestow the honor--on ladies, in his case, I think. It has most often been given to ladies."

It was Geralt's turn to vent a little laugh. "Is this a special knighthood for-- _favorites_?"

"Technically it is for surpassing personal service to the emperor," Emhyr said. "It's been awarded by some sovereigns to the nannies and nurses who raised them--Cirilla might wish to honor you so on her own part, when it is in her gift. But from me... yes, that is certainly the likeliest interpretation."

"You said you couldn't give me titles and things," Geralt said. "Because I'm an unwashed Nordling."

Emhyr tilted his head and then took a step in, bringing them almost into body contact--enough for Geralt to notice that Emhyr wasn't wearing any kind of scent, though he smelled as scrubbed-clean as usual. Under the plain soap Geralt could almost detect the warm body-smell of him. 

Emhyr bowed his own head slightly, sniffing along the side of Geralt's throat.

"You seem quite well washed to me," Emhyr said. "As for being a Nordling--as I said, this particular Order is the personal purview of the Emperor. It has been awarded to Zerrikanians, to elves, and I believe once, a couple of centuries ago, to a Skelliger. It's not a real peerage--it wouldn't be inheritable, and comes with no lands or incomes--but it is an equivalent honor."

An honor, technically--but an honor for excelling in taking it up the ass from the emperor. 

Well. Everyone already knew he was doing that; he might as well let Emhyr give him whatever shiny adornment would tell them he was really _good_ at it.

"What's the outward sign look like, then?"

Emhyr smiled and stepped back, and Geralt followed him over to the table, standing at his shoulder as he opened the case. 

Geralt let out another startled laugh. "Well, that's symbolism even a Nordling can follow."

The--not necklace, exactly, but it was clearly a chain meant to be worn around his neck, not unlike the gold one Emhyr often wore--was made of big heavy circles of some nearly-white metal finer than silver, maybe platinum. Each of the circles was a phase of the moon, one for each night of a full month's cycle, with some kind of black jewel between each. There was a pendant at the bottom: a full moon in the same platinum, but with gold sun-rays coming out around it, like an impossible eclipse that left the full moon still shining brightly in front of the sun.

Like the Sun-Emperor snugged right up behind his Moon-Favorite for a fuck, made into jewelry he was meant to wear in public. 

"May I?" Emhyr slid his hands under the heavy chain, raising it an inch or two out of the black silk lining the case.

Geralt just spread his arms and bowed his head. Emhyr lifted the chain over his head, settling the weight of it over Geralt's shoulders, so that the thing spread in a shallow curve across his chest, just below his collarbones. It was well balanced and heavy enough to keep itself in place as he moved, though it would be a hazard in a fight. 

Though only if he left it where it was. In his hand it would be an extra weapon; he could probably break bones with it if he swung it at full force.

Emhyr spent a moment minutely adjusting the balance and position of the chain and medallion, then lifted his gaze to meet Geralt's eyes with a light in his eyes that wasn't only humor. "Sir Geralt of Rivia, I hereby create you a Companion of the Order of the Moon."

Before Geralt had to figure out if he should say _thank you_ or possibly _amen_ , Emhyr leaned in to give him a brief chaste kiss, like the period at the end of his sentence. 

"Now," Emhyr said, stepping back briskly. "As I said, this isn't actually a peerage, but it is equivalent in precedence and confers certain privileges--for instance, you now have the right to wear a blade in the presence of the emperor even on the most formal of occasions."

Geralt barely choked off the sound that wanted to emerge from his throat at that; he was suddenly painfully aware of the absence of his swords on his back. He looked down at himself, forced his hands open from instinctive fists. He smoothed his hands down the surcoat and said, "I'm guessing that doesn't mean I should go fetch my own."

"I fear not," Emhyr agreed. He went back to the case and picked up a black silk bag that had blended into the case's lining until now. He drew from it a white coil ending in a buckle of the same pale shining platinum as the Order of the Moon, and it resolved into a sword belt--made of silk and finely embroidered, but sturdy enough to hold a real blade. Emhyr came back to him and stepped in to fasten it just so around Geralt's hips.

He smoothed the strap a scabbard would hang from over Geralt's left hip and said, "I think it's best if you only carry one, at least for now. Would you rather have silver or steel?"

Emhyr's head was still ducked, looking down at his own hands on the sword-belt. Geralt twisted a little to get his own head down lower and kiss him, because he couldn't think of another way to properly say what he was feeling. Emhyr had done all this for him, had considered what he would want, how to make him comfortable in more ways than just perfectly-fitted clothes that didn't have to be black.

"Silver," Geralt said when he broke the kiss. "If it comes to that I can grab steel off someone else--I assume there will be enough around."

Emhyr nodded, like he had predicted that tactical assessment and agreed with it, and said, "Come then, let's see about your silver blade for tonight."

There were three laid out on a silk cloth on Emhyr's bed, and it shouldn't have been hot but it was anyway. They were short swords, or maybe long knives--none of the blades were longer than the distance from Geralt's elbow to his fingertips. They were single-edged, curved, the blades decorated with engraving in various patterns. 

Only one of them had a flat pommel with a wolf's head decoration; it was also set with runes Geralt recognized, for added sharpness and power. Geralt picked it up and turned it this way and that, evaluating the quality of the silver and testing the weight of it, and his grip. He tried the point and then the edge, slicing the pad of his thumb so smoothly he didn't feel it until the blood welled up. 

He glanced over at Emhyr, faintly worried that Emhyr would think he hadn't meant to do it, or would be distressed by him bleeding, but Emhyr merely said, "Bandage? Salve?"

Geralt grinned, then said, "Nah, just takes a minute to heal." He pressed his thumb against his teeth to stop it bleeding and lick away what blood there was, and looked around the room thoughtfully, blade still resting comfortably in his other hand. 

Finally he pointed to the low table between the chairs by the hearth; they set food and drinks on it usually, but Emhyr was as willing to prop his feet on it as Geralt was, and the piece had been allowed to accumulate a few scuffs. It was sturdy, good solid hardwood.

"You mind a little hole in that?"

Emhyr raised his eyebrows, but shook his head, and Geralt went over and propped one foot on the edge of the table before he reversed his grip and stabbed the short blade into the top with a good amount of force. It bit in deeply, as Geralt had figured it would with how sharp it was.

Then he leaned on it, putting pressure on the flat of the blade at the spot where it was sunk in. People who didn't know what they were doing with a silver blade could make it soft, or brittle, so that it would bend or snap under the wrong kind of force.

This one flexed, just barely, but it held. The crack in the wood widened by a hair before Geralt was satisfied and drew the point back out. He sighted down the flat and the edge of the blade, checking for any faint deformation, but it was as straight and unmarked as it had been to begin with, the edges of the engraved runes catching the light and almost seeming to glow with their own light as they flashed.

"Yeah," Geralt said, turning to face Emhyr, tossing and catching the short sword as he did. "Yeah, this will do."

And since Emhyr just handed him a scabbard instead of touching him, Geralt didn't remark on the way his pupils had gone wide, the faint flush rising on his cheeks and the scent of arousal rising with his body temperature. Whether Emhyr knew he knew it or not, Geralt was going to be earning his place in the Order of the Moon again tonight, and even without everything else, that would have left him facing the prospect of a party with a smile on his face.

* * *

Geralt's smile--which had gotten brighter at the sight of Ciri decked out in her pretty silver dress, and the grin and squeal she gave at the sight of him in fancy party gear--faded as he followed Emhyr and Ciri into the big receiving room, where dozens of Nilfgaardians awaited them. They were a sea of black and gray and brown, like animals meant to fade into a desolate, rocky landscape. Here and there he could see young women and a few young men who stood out from the crowd in differing colors--pale blues and pinks and greens. Those would be the ones imitating Ciri, friends or allies or sycophants. 

The first person to approach them was dressed nearly entirely in dark gray--but his sleeves were laced with silver and pale blue embroidery, like ropes he was throwing to Ciri. Or ropes she'd already gotten around him, maybe. 

Morvran Voorhis bowed deeply and gracefully to the Emperor and Princess. Emhyr murmured a low acknowledgement, and Ciri cheerfully echoed it as Morvran straightened up. Morvran smiled back, eyes shining, and his expression only faltered a little when he spotted Geralt over Ciri's shoulder.

It was probably a really good thing Emhyr didn't want Geralt to be diplomatic and get people to like him, judging by the way Morvran went still and neutral at whatever he saw on Geralt's face. 

Geralt gave him a little nod, trying to keep his own expression just as neutral. He did understand. Ciri was gonna have to marry someone; it was part of the job. Morvran was the top candidate and not a bad guy. He got stupidly excited about horses; it wasn't until hanging out with him at the races that Geralt had realized the kid wasn't any older than Ciri--maybe a few years younger, even. So it could be a lot worse. She could be stuck with someone Emhyr's age.

Still. If Morvran put one toe out of line, Geralt could find a lot of really creative ways to make his life hell; a childhood full of pranks around Kaer Morhen combined with a witcher's skills meant he could do a lot without actually touching someone.

Morvran seemed to relax minutely at Geralt's nod, and when he stepped away, it was smooth enough that Geralt was pretty sure that was actually just how this worked. Emhyr and Ciri continued further into the room, and people kept coming into their path to bow and greet them. Nothing as simple as a receiving line; it was like a dance in itself, before the dancing started. Geralt eyed the heavy chains around the necks of the nobles who approached, the short blades worn by some of the men, and thought he could count down the levels of precedence. They were approaching in a strictly determined order, while making it all look casual and natural.

Emhyr and Ciri were performing their own steps, too, Geralt realized as he trailed after them, automatically mapping their path at the same time he scanned for potential threats, exits, lines of sight. They wound through three different spacious rooms, seeing and being seen by hundreds and greeted by maybe a tenth of them, never moving in a straight line for more than a few strides--so that even the ones who didn't approach the imperial personages still got a pretty good look at them. 

And a good look at Geralt, too, as he trailed after them.

Finally, though, they reached the ballroom proper, which was almost perfectly empty. There were musicians at one end of the room, and a few servants and guards dotted around the perimeter, but the shining expanse of the dance floor was empty, allowing Geralt to see the full effect of it. 

This was _that_ ballroom, the one that had earned Emhyr his most notorious title: _The White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Enemies_. The gravestones had been arranged in a neat, symmetrical pattern and smoothed somehow so that they lay exactly flush with the ordinary marble they were interspersed with. 

It wouldn't do for the White Flame to stub a toe or even _stumble_ on the graves of his enemies, after all.

Without a backward glance, Emhyr and Ciri proceeded out onto the empty floor, their strides changing so that it was obvious even to a clod like Geralt that he was meant to stay behind now. He meant to imitate the guards and pick a spot against a wall, but everyone from all three of the previous rooms was flooding in, and now that he didn't have Emhyr and Ciri breaking his trail, Geralt couldn't get past all their fascinated stares. He found himself herded--part of the dance himself now, somehow--to the front rank of those ringing the dance floor. 

Morvran took a similar station, on a different side, and Geralt didn't know whether to be glad he could watch someone faintly familiar for cues without it being terribly obvious, or wishing he could have had Morvran at his shoulder instead. It wasn't like anyone here expected him to know what the hell he was doing without being guided through every step.

Ciri stepped slightly away from Emhyr's side, raising her free hand in a smooth, genteel motion that caused all murmuring and rustling to come to an immediate halt. She launched into a speech in the most polished of courtly Nilfgaardian, the kind Geralt had to really pay attention to understand, and for a minute he was just watching his little dirty-faced girl who'd been running the Gauntlet only yesterday, shining at the center of this glittering world, holding everyone spellbound with a kind of magic he'd never seen her use before.

Then he felt everyone's attention turning toward him, and focused on Ciri's actual words. "--Guardian and protector, and now an even dearer friend to my father than to me: Sir Geralt of Rivia, Companion of the Order of the Moon."

Ciri's fingers gave a little directing twitch, her smile curling up slightly, and Geralt knew enough to sweep his smoothest and deepest bow to her and Emhyr as everyone around him cheered. They were cheering for the spectacle--and because Ciri, their diamond-bright princess, wanted them to--but Geralt knew at least a few steps himself, and he could play his part that far.

When he straightened up his eyes met Emhyr's, watching him with an intensity that was a few degrees warmer than it probably should have been in a crowded ballroom. Geralt heard and felt an entirely different layer of reaction race around the room, and stood very still, not fidgeting even though his new clothes suddenly felt too tight all over.

Then Emhyr tore his gaze away from Geralt and directed it to the musicians, making a gesture more peremptory than Ciri's pretty one, and the music started. Emhyr turned back to Ciri, offering her his hand, and she rested her fingers lightly in his grasp as they began to step to the music.

The two of them made as striking a picture as Geralt had expected: Emhyr all in black except for the gold chain of office draped over his shoulders and the hilt of the blade at his hip, Ciri in silver-white. Diamonds glittered from her carefully-dressed hair, sparks of brightness in the ashen-white, and her eyes shone brighter, fixed on Emhyr's as they followed each other through the dance. 

The footwork was an intricate repeating figure; Geralt mapped it automatically--left step, right step, turn--as if it were a training pattern he would have to repeat shortly. Of course here they held each other's hands instead of swords, but given who those hands belonged to it wasn't any less a display of deadly force.

When they'd cycled back to their exact starting positions, the music altered to a slight variation and people entered the floor in couples, smoothly joining the dance. Morvran wasn't among them, but a couple stepped onto the floor from just beside him, and there were enough similar features for him to guess that they were Morvran's parents even without the status cue of them being among the first. Naturally the dancers were joining the pattern in a similar order to the way they'd greeted Emhyr and Ciri to begin with. It wasn't even hard to guess why Morvran was abstaining just now: he awaited his proper partner.

Geralt, on the other hand, wasn't going to be anybody's proper partner--every couple was a man and a woman, he could see--so he faded back a step or two, making for the safety of the wall now that he'd done his bit of being on display. 

A flash of metal in the raised hand of someone coming toward him made him turn his head sharply, though he kept his hands open at his sides--a good thing, since the metal was a serving tray, and the person was the same footman who'd dispatched him to Emhyr's rooms an hour or so ago. The tray held exactly one plate, with tiny pieces of food arrayed in a pretty pattern, and exactly one wine glass, half full.

Emhyr _had_ promised Geralt would get to eat the food, hadn't he? Geralt nodded his thanks and took glass and plate, arranging them so that he could hold both in his left hand and eat with his right.

He thought the footman looked faintly impressed, or maybe amused, under the usual blank mask, but then he bowed and turned away, disappearing instantly into the crowd. 

Geralt took a sip of the wine--a particular favorite of his, so much so that he doubted it was the same as was being served to everyone at this party--and watched the dancing, still tracking the pattern of the steps and trying to work out whether some larger pattern governed the way the pairs all moved around each other. He didn't have a good vantage to see precisely how all the pairs' movements interlocked, so it took some concentration to convert his side-on view into a footwork figure, gauging the distances they kept from each other and the ways they all turned relative to themselves, each other, and the edges and corners of the floor.

He nearly had it worked out when a too-smooth, too-warm voice beside him said, " _Sir Geralt_ , is it?" 

The way he pronounced Geralt's name and title--part of his title, anyway--sounded like he was humoring a child who'd just made up an absurd name for an imaginary friend. That would make Geralt imaginary, and Ciri an absurd child; Geralt wondered if both insults were intended, or just the one. 

"Sir Geralt of Rivia, Companion of the Order of the Moon, as of tonight, but I suppose that's a lot for you to remember," Geralt said, affably dismissing the mistake and still not bothering to look over. The man was well within his reach, but Geralt judged him absolutely no threat even now that he was properly paying attention; the worst he might do would be to get Geralt's arm briefly tangled in his elaborate clothes when Geralt reached over to knife or strangle him. 

Emhyr had asked him not to be offensive, though, and stabbing would probably give offense. Geralt had better uses for his hands, anyway. He tried the little pastry at the center of the plate's neat pattern--the filling was some kind of spicy combination of meat and fruit, and the pale golden crust was rich with butter. 

The man went a brighter shade of pink at Geralt's words, the bright color standing out starkly against the unrelieved black of his clothes. Geralt considered pointing out the unfashionable shade of his complexion but decided to wait for the man to lay down another card. Or actually introduce himself and spare Geralt having to identify him by description to Emhyr and Ciri later, when they asked him what had been said to him tonight.

There was a nastier hook to the warmth in the Nilfgaardian's voice when he said, "I'd heard witchers would do anything for enough coin. Evidently it's not only your fighting talents that can be bought, hm?"

Geralt took another sip of the wine while he tried to choose from among the tantalizing number of different ways he could respond to that. Though he'd probably hear much the same comment a dozen or more times tonight or in the near future, so he'd get his chances to try them all.

"As a group we're generally pretty happy to fuck for free," Geralt said evenly. "Hell, Emhyr's good enough, I'd pay him for it if I had to."

The man choked on air and the pink of his face got closer to red; Geralt glanced around, tallying the number of people standing close enough to hear his words without daring to engage directly. Yeah, that one would be getting repeated all over the city before morning.

"Are you implying," the man hissed, all composure gone from his voice, "that the _Emperor_ would--would ever--"

"Well, no, not for money, obviously," Geralt said, packing all the patient tutor's air he could muster into his voice. "Generally you people only put out for land or titles, don't you? But Emhyr's got about all of those he needs, so he was free to just pick someone to fuck because he liked them. Seems he had to go all the way to Kaer Morhen to find anybody up to his standards."

Geralt tried one of the things that looked like a tiny iced cake next; it actually _was_ a tiny iced cake, with cream and jam inside and everything. He let himself make a pleased noise and picked up another to cram into his mouth while the man beside him spluttered. 

Geralt wondered if it might be bad, politically, to point out that Emhyr didn't find anyone in Nilfgaard worth marrying or fucking, but then again it wasn't like that wouldn't be obvious just from the fact of Geralt. And Emhyr hadn't told Geralt to be delicate, or specified anyone he shouldn't offend or any way he shouldn't offend them, so it was probably fine. 

Unless the guy actually managed to burst a blood vessel in his brain from sheer outrage. That might be nearly as impolite as stabbing, if neater.

Geralt caught sight of Emhyr and Ciri when the pattern of other dancers around them made a space to spot them at the center, and smiled a little. "Excuse me, whatever your name is," Geralt said, still having never looked directly at the man. "Places to go." 

With that Geralt walked away, and people got out of his way with alacrity, a trail of whispers and hisses starting up behind him. Maybe that would save the next one from covering the same ground, and he'd get something actually interesting. 

Still, there was no point actively encouraging them. Geralt moved back up to the edge of the dance floor to watch while he finished eating and drinking. But the next person to sidle up to him was actually familiar--it was Julena, one of Ciri's attendant ladies, wearing a gray gown with what he'd guess was extremely daring purple decoration around the edges. He'd never spoken much to her, but at least she was someone he _could_ speak to without a lot of tedious bullshit. 

"Who was that guy? Anybody important?"

"Mm, he likes to think he is," Julena said, matching Geralt's low tone. He offered his plate in her direction, and she didn't hesitate to grab an intricately carved piece of radish delicately festooned with something creamy and yellow. Geralt tried one himself--the yellow stuff was a nice contrast to the sharpness and crunch of the radish--while Julena went on. "Xavier var Gaernel. Family very wealthy but not that highly ranked, by blood. His uncle's a minister. Xavier's sort of a hanger-on at large; he has no actual court position."

Unlike Julena's position as one of Ciri's ladies, which Geralt gathered was an actual job except that fancy people wouldn't call it that because it implied they had to work for a living. So it was a _court position_.

"Is Emperor's Favorite a court position?" Geralt asked, tipping his plate toward her again. They were gathering some fascinatingly intense stares from other people around the perimeter of the ballroom. 

Did they think Geralt was going to cheat on _the emperor_ with _his daughter's aide-de-camp_ and be so stupid as to make a show of it where Emhyr and Ciri would both be sure to see? He knew they thought Nordlings were inferior, but the kind of total failure of self-preservation instinct that implied would have gotten Geralt killed long before he ever passed south of the Pontar.

On the other hand, Geralt realized as he scanned the crowd, no one else in the room had any food or drinks, so it was possible they just envied Julena her share of his specially-delivered snacks.

"It depends on the Emperor, and the Favorite," Julena said thoughtfully, giving a serious answer to his mostly-ironic question. "My great-grandmother served as virtually a substitute empress in leading social events at court."

Geralt actually looked over at her, and she smiled and nodded toward the chain draped over his shoulders. "Hers was smaller, but so was she. It's a treasured family heirloom now. Not something I was allowed to use when I played dress-up."

Geralt blinked at her and then turned his gaze back out at the ballroom, reconsidering the meaning of all those looks. "You aiming for one of your own?"

Julena's voice turned very prim as she said, "Of course I hope that my personal service to the princess will surpass all her expectations."

The very conscious way she said it--and what she obviously knew of her great-grandmother's history, to say nothing of what Geralt knew of Ciri--made him almost positive that she wouldn't be offering anything she didn't already want to offer to her princess, just for the sake of a shiny chain. 

Still. "She, uh... there are some things she wouldn't want just as a service. Especially... personal things."

Julena's proper pose softened a little and she said, "I know, sir." Her smile turned downright mischievous as she added, "That's why it's still a matter of hoping I will and not knowing for sure. Don't tell her, will you?"

Geralt didn't know if he'd ever been asked to keep such a sweetly innocent secret. And, too, he owed Ciri a little payback for her embarrassing enthusiasm for this thing between him and Emhyr. Anyway, if his witcher-trained daughter couldn't spot a Nilfgaardian noblewoman setting a snare for her without Geralt's help, well, this would certainly be a lesson for her. 

"Oh, I won't," Geralt assured her. "Here, try one of the pink ones."

He and Julena polished off everything on the plate, and Geralt had drained his wine glass, by the time the music ended and all the couples spun to a flourishing halt. Geralt's favorite footman materialized by his side to take the plate and glass from him; he didn't immediately offer replacements, but then again Emhyr was headed straight toward him with a look on his face Geralt couldn't quite read, so Geralt was probably about to be busy.

Emhyr didn't break stride, but he put a hand out as if to catch Geralt, so Geralt turned and fell in with him as he reached the edge of the dance floor and continued beyond it. Emhyr's hand landed on the small of his back, not entirely unlike the way his hand had fallen on Ciri for a few steps of their dance. Geralt let himself be guided through the next set of moves.

"Tolerating it so far, my dear witcher?" Emhyr murmured, as people fell back to make a path for them, into the third of the standing-around rooms off the ballroom. 

Geralt didn't let himself smile too much at the fond name, or look around to see whether anyone had heard it. "Yeah, you should try those little cakes, they're great," Geralt said. "I might have implied something about your hypothetical career as a courtesan, though."

Emhyr gave him a sideways look, the corner of his mouth tucking up slightly, and did not deign to actually ask.

"Just that it would've been successful if I had anything to do with it," Geralt said with a shrug.

"Such flattery," Emhyr said, almost actually smiling though the tone of his voice was still mostly stern. "You will go to my head."

"Yeah, but later," Geralt agreed blithely. "Didn't think you wanted an audience for that part."

Emhyr snorted, but still didn't quite crack a smile; Geralt realized he had a goal for the night now. He was going to make Emhyr actually smile--make him _laugh_ \--or consider the evening a failure. Not the easiest contract he'd ever taken, but he thought he could probably find a way to pull it off.


	3. Chapter 3

Half an hour later, Geralt was reconsidering his odds of success. Emhyr had taken him to the corner of the room, where a low dais held a chair that wasn't quite a throne, but that no one but Emhyr would have dared to sit in. There were two plainer chairs by it, one to either side, and Emhyr waved Geralt into the one at his left. Instead of Emhyr's hand on his back, Geralt got Emhyr's hand resting on his thigh, which felt awfully intimate even through all the layers of clothes Geralt was wearing, in this setting.

That was obviously the point, though. Emhyr permitted a series of people to perch briefly in the other chair and exchange a few words with him. He introduced Geralt to the first one--Morvran's mother, who clearly had made a fixed decision to be cordial despite everything, and nodded politely to Geralt. Most of the others were not granted the... privilege, Geralt thought it was, of being presented by name to the Emperor's Favorite. 

Either way, Geralt never had to do more than nod or say a word or two, and wouldn't really have wanted to in any case. The short conversations were all stiffly, distantly polite in a way that clearly was some kind of elaborate code--yet another dance, Geralt supposed, but these steps he couldn't learn by watching. He was going to need the codebook for this; until he had it, he wasn't eager to go blundering in.

Geralt could see a sliver of the dance floor through the archway, thanks to the elevated position of his seat. The second dance was a quite different one--people still paired off, but they formed into squads of eight and interchanged among partners before rotating back to their own. That was the dance Ciri did with Morvran, obviously a less emphatic statement of favor than an entire paired dance with him. Nicely calculated, since she hadn't officially settled on him yet.

Halfway through the dance after that one--another squad thing--Julena appeared before them, while Emhyr was halfway through the set exchanges with yet another chilly Nilfgaardian Geralt hadn't been introduced to. She curtseyed and looked up at Emhyr in silent question, and Emhyr glanced over at Geralt, lifting his hand from Geralt's thigh to gesture toward Julena--offering him his freedom now that whatever point Emhyr meant to make was thoroughly made. 

Geralt nodded his gratitude and said, "Later, then, Your Majesty."

Clearly he wasn't going to get a chance to make Emhyr smile like this; Julena might be able to advise him and in any case he was about ready to jump out of his skin with the boredom of sitting still. 

Julena made a little cueing gesture, and Geralt had watched a dozen people depart Emhyr's company at this point, so he spun neatly to stand at her side, bowing while she curtseyed. 

Unlike anyone else he'd seen, Geralt got a brush of fingers along his jaw. He tipped his head up to meet Emhyr's eyes, and to see Emhyr leaning markedly forward to reach him. 

"Enjoy yourself, my dear," Emhyr murmured, well audible to the frozen woman beside him and Julena, as well as Geralt. "I shall be with you later, indeed. Don't forget."

Geralt let himself grin, which won him a heated glint in Emhyr's eyes, but still not a smile. Emhyr dropped his hand and made an easy gesture of dismissal, and Geralt and Julena stepped backward to the edge of the dais, then turned and walked away normally. 

"Ciri asked for you," Julena said, and went on in a light tone before Geralt could imagine more than a handful of disastrous reasons Ciri might need him now. "She'd like you for the next dance, if you're willing?" 

Geralt glanced toward the dance floor as they approached. He had a pretty good idea of how this squad dance worked, but given that the first three had all been different from each other, he guessed the next would be too. 

"Tell me the steps for it," Geralt said. His footman appeared again, and Geralt waved off the plate of snacks, but took the glass and tossed it back in a couple of quick gulps before returning it to the tray. 

When Geralt returned his attention to Julena, she'd produced a scrap of paper from somewhere. He recognized Ciri's hand in the neatly sketched figure there, and took in her meanings at a glance. It was a paired dance--Ciri was not afraid to put Geralt on the same kind of footing as Emhyr, then. He smiled to himself a little and nodded, handing the paper back to Julena. He didn't want to risk upsetting his tailor by jamming it into his own clothes anywhere. 

"Is there a rule for how pairs move around each other?" Geralt inquired. They were near the edge of the dance floor now, and once again had a little clear space around them. 

Julena gave him an approving look, and didn't ask whether he needed another look at the paper. "The figure will tend to move you a couple of paces--" she gestured with the paper, showing that Geralt would be moving forward from his starting point, Ciri therefore going backward from hers. "With each repeat. Rotate a quarter-turn to your right at the start if the next repeat will bring you to an edge, and keep at least a pace between you and the next couple."

Geralt nodded, matching that to his observations of Emhyr and Ciri's dance. Not quite the same pattern, but he could see it had been governed by similar principles. The present dance finished, and Ciri released the hand of her ending partner with pointed alacrity, turning instantly toward Geralt and Julena. She gestured to Geralt, and he smiled and strode out to join her; she offered her hands to him, crossed at the wrist, and he took them, stepping back to find his own starting pose. She directed him with a few tiny head tilts, and he was in his place well before the rest of the pairs had finished forming up around them. 

Ciri was beaming, eyes bright, color a little flushed, as if she'd done a good warmup; Geralt couldn't help returning the smile. "Having fun, Princess?"

"Well, it's no Gauntlet," Ciri said easily. "But it'll do."

Geralt grinned, and then the music started, and he stepped off at Ciri's firm finger-tap on his knuckle, moving them into the figure. 

The first couple of steps felt like he was taking them on a narrow bridge he couldn't see, trusting only Ciri's instructions and his own understanding of them, but Ciri's pleased look and the congruence of their movements with everyone around him assured him that he had it right. By the time they'd finished the first repeat he was moving easily, confidently; Ciri laughed as he added a little flourish to the last step, before taking her hands again.

"So are you scandalizing everyone, or helping your father out here, or what?"

"Which father?" Ciri asked. "I thought you might need rescue from the holding-court part of the evening. And I don't know that the Emperor is especially concerned about whether everyone knows you can handle yourself as well on a dance floor as in a salle."

"He wouldn't have bothered giving me the pretty chain if he didn't want people to know something about me," Geralt pointed out. "Not like I was looking for it."

Ciri's smile twisted a little. "You know the proper regalia term for your pretty chain?"

Geralt raised his eyebrows, just as they stepped apart and did their separate pirouettes before coming back together with their left hands palm to palm. 

"It's a collar," Ciri said impishly, and Geralt's head whipped around without a thought. He couldn't quite see Emhyr's face from here, but he saw that the chair where he'd had Geralt at his side was still empty, and Emhyr's hand rested on the empty cushioned seat.

Geralt rolled his shoulders a little under the already-familiar weight of the _collar_ , changing grips and then changing them again while he considered whether he was annoyed. The warmth in his belly felt a little like embarrassment, but it was more like the feeling of Vesemir pulling him to the front and making him show the other boys a sword figure than anything tinged with shame.

"Sounds about right," Geralt said, taking Ciri's hands again, and her smile turned more warm than teasing. She squeezed his hands in time with the music before they started the next repeat.

The exertion of the dance, which moved at a brisk pace but not, for instance, uphill in full armor carrying more serious weapons than just his silver knife, didn't challenge either of them. Still, they didn't speak much after that, just silently enjoying the shared movement, the neat little performance of the right pattern again and again with tiny variations. They moved as one to turn as the edge of the dance floor neared, adjusted without effort when others strayed too near. 

Geralt felt as if he'd only just settled into the exercise when the music reached its end. Geralt glanced toward the archway, toward Emhyr, and this time Emhyr was looking toward him. His expression was cool but not displeased, and he made no gesture to call Geralt back, which was good because Geralt really didn't think he could bear to sit down again when he'd just gotten limbered up.

"Julena asked for next," Ciri said when Geralt's attention returned to her, and sure enough, Julena was walking up to him, offering her right hand. "In your left," Ciri directed. "It's like the first pattern dance we did, for the first half of the pattern and the end. You'll see the steps for the second half. Form up behind me."

Geralt gave her a brisk nod, nearly a salute, and stepped into place, holding Julena's hand so they were side by side, Julena behind Ciri and a young man whose _extremely_ daring outfit was mostly a pale yellow with red accents. Geralt heard him say about three words to Ciri and promptly pegged him as a friendly high-fashion idiot, something between Dandelion and one of Anarietta's more strictly-decorative knights. No threat there, and the ease in the line of Ciri's shoulders confirmed it more reliably than the smile she turned on the boy as she gave him her hand.

Working out steps he didn't know in advance was a pleasant little challenge, especially while moving in much closer coordination with a whole squad of dancers. The fellow behind him was prone to swing around a bit wildly--drunk already? Hoping to collide and make Geralt look like an oaf? Geralt had to pay attention to dodge him; the man's partner grimaced in semi-apology at Geralt when he handed her along in the line, cycling back past Ciri to Julena.

When the dance ended, Ciri moved away with her flamboyant friend. Someone was waiting for her at the edge of the dance floor with a cool glass of something, so Geralt evidently wasn't the only one who got drinks delivered, even if he was in rarefied company. 

Julena kept hold of his hand for an extra second, and said, "Sir Geralt, could I trouble you to partner Lady Tansy for the next set?"

Tansy had hair nearly as yellow as the flower she was named for, and a few little ribbon decorations in the same color lightened her dark brown dress. She looked a little timid, but determined, and Geralt gave her an encouraging smile and offered his hand. She didn't say a word to him all through the next dance--an entirely new pattern this time, but they had a middle spot in the squad so Geralt could copy the moves from the man ahead of him, who danced stiffly but flawlessly as far as Geralt could tell.

At the break between dances, Lady Tansy said in a small voice, "Sir Geralt? Would you like to--" His direct attention threw her for a beat, but then she went on with the set line. "Partner Lady Rosaline for the next set?"

Geralt grinned and bowed to Tansy as he said, "My pleasure, Lady Tansy."

Lady Rosaline's dance was a fast bouncy one with a lot of twirling and a bit of foot-stomping--Geralt noted that Ciri had come back for it, though she wasn't in his and Rosaline's pair-of-pairs. If he'd had Ciri for his partner he would have been tempted to throw in a few more energetic elaborations, knowing Ciri would match him effortlessly. Even with Rosaline, the dance was fast enough to be really fun, not just better than the alternative.

Geralt was grinning when it ended, and knew his face was a little flushed, his hair slightly out of its neatly-combed order.

And Emhyr was standing at the edge of the dance floor, arms folded across his chest, looking stern. 

Geralt didn't stop grinning, though he let go of Rosaline without a word or a glance, walking over to stand before Emhyr. 

Emhyr didn't look away from him and didn't speak, but Geralt could feel a little rippling murmur around them--something was happening that wasn't part of the planned figure. People were having to be moved around to suit whatever it was Emhyr had decided should happen now. 

"You didn't tell me not to dance with Ciri's friends," Geralt offered, listening as people made their bewildered way off the dance floor, hampered by the fact that no one wanted to move far enough to lose their view of whatever was about to happen.

"Indeed I did not," Emhyr murmured. "But you've been at it for better than an hour, so I believe I'm within my rights to reclaim you now."

"Well, I'm wearing your collar," Geralt replied, and wasn't disappointed by the answering heated darkness of Emhyr's eyes.

"Center of the floor, please," Emhyr said, still low, and Geralt entertained a brief wild fantasy that he was about to be pushed to his knees right here, in front of everyone, to satisfy Emhyr's need to possess him. He didn't think he'd mind, but he knew Emhyr would.

Instead, when Emhyr had backed him up to the center of the now-clear space, gesturing Geralt back out of arm's reach, Emhyr drew the long knife from his hip, raising his eyebrows.

Geralt drew his; there was a brief startled rustling, but the guards didn't rush him, so he'd guess that drawing a weapon on the emperor at the emperor's silent command was within the bounds. 

Emhyr smiled and raised his knife, rolling the hilt over the back of his hand and catching it again; Geralt smiled, starting to recognize what this was--he'd seen it on Skellige, and he supposed Emhyr must have learned it during Duny's years in Cintra, where Skelligers had been a significant presence at court. Geralt tossed his own blade in the air, to flip end-over-end three times before he caught it without a look. 

Emhyr huffed but didn't make a further challenging move before the music started.

It was like a sword drill, only with this long knife, and set to music, and with his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Emhyr's. He mirrored Emhyr's movements, every stylized thrust and step, forward and back, side to side, faster and faster as the music sped them on.

The color rose in Emhyr's face, and Geralt was reminded of him in the training yard--just yesterday--and caught the faintest whiff of his warm sweat-smell, muffled by his formal clothes but otherwise undisguised. 

"Would you care to do the really dramatic version?" Emhyr asked, inaudible under the music to anyone else as they spun and thrust out their knives, high left and low right and changing hands. 

"I'd better be the one to do the dying," Geralt replied, following Emhyr's meaning readily. "Or your guards may get overexcited."

"That would likely put a damper on the party," Emhyr agreed, almost smiling now, _almost_.

The music was rising to a crescendo, and Geralt followed Emhyr's tiniest cues, stepping in and raising his knife high while Emhyr made an entirely different move, slapping the flat of his blade high on Geralt's ribs, under his raised arm. 

Geralt dropped his arm and reeled back, clutching his play-wound with his free hand. Emhyr's shoulders shook just a little as Geralt staggered artistically, and Geralt thought absently that acting would be a lot easier and more fun if there was less talking and more playful knife-fighting. 

He fell to his knees as Emhyr followed him in stalking steps that still coordinated with the music. Geralt, not above showing off, folded backward with his feet still under him. He spread his knees wide so he could lay his head all the way to the floor before he let his knife-wielding hand fall limp, and his eyes closed.

He felt Emhyr perform a few steps alone--the ritual performance of remorse--and then Emhyr came nearer, sliding down to his knees at Geralt's side and bending close. 

A kiss on the forehead, or one on each cheek, was what Geralt had seen for this part in Skellige, but Emhyr dropped one hand flat over Geralt's racing heart to hold him still, and pressed the briefest of kisses to his lips.

Only then did Geralt open his eyes, and he was glad as soon as he did, because Emhyr was grinning down at him, fiercely happy, eyes bright and color high. 

It was only an instant that he stayed there, looking down at his play-revived play-victim, and then Emhyr leaned back and popped to his feet, reaching out a hand for Geralt. Geralt took it, and let it at least look like Emhyr pulled him up. He followed Emhyr into the last steps of the dance, and they moved in concert once again, circling each other and stomping, knives flashing fast, as the music raced along, bouncy and joyful now. 

Geralt mirrored everything Emhyr did, matching even the minuscule wavering of his hand--it was a long dance, and usually performed by young men, but Emhyr obviously refused to cut it short even if he wasn't quite in condition for it. Geralt could see Emhyr fighting for control, pressing his lips flat even as he was breathing hard through his nose. Geralt made the same face, trying to scowl back in exactly mirrored concentration, and Emhyr finally broke.

He threw his head back and laughed, so Geralt put his back too, laughing delightedly and watching Emhyr through his eyelashes, following him through the concluding sequence of the dance until they came to a perfect stop, their blades ringing prettily against each other, silver on steel.

A stunning silence fell, so complete at the music's end and with hundreds of Nilfgaardians holding utterly still that Geralt could hear the hard thumping of Emhyr's heart as well as his own. Barely louder, Geralt breathed, "Is it later yet, Your Majesty?"

Emhyr's dark gaze said _yes_ , but a piercing whistle he recognized as Ciri's cut through the air before Emhyr actually spoke a word.

* * *

Emhyr considered that he might have miscalculated slightly. He had not been this desperately aroused at a court function in a very long time. 

Though, as he recalled, that occasion had also resulted from exorcising an absurd spasm of jealousy by challenging Pavetta in some way, and he had deserved it quite as much. Foolish of him to think he might, in the last twenty-odd years, have outgrown such things. 

Ciri's singular whistle--a raucous sign of approval that no one dared imitate, or detract from--died away and left him facing Geralt's beaming expression, and Geralt's question, both of which inclined him in one direction.

"It is," Emhyr breathed, grappling for control of himself against the vision of pushing Geralt right back down onto the stones to kiss properly this time. "Very much later. And I still do not care for an audience for anything beyond this."

Emhyr sheathed his seax--a more painfully transparent metaphor than he had ever realized before just now--and turned his back on Geralt. He heard Geralt put away his own blade and then step up close to his shoulder, a half-pace behind. Emhyr made for the nearest exit, and people fell away from his path, including the guard who had been planted in front of that particular hidden door, getting it open and then all but leaping away.

The door was firmly closed behind them, and Emhyr whirled on Geralt in the dim, narrow corridor. Geralt was still smiling as Emhyr pressed him back against the wall and kissed him recklessly, too desperate to take his usual deliberate care.

Geralt clearly didn't mind, kissing back enthusiastically though he stayed pressed to the wall under Emhyr's hands. After all the dancing he'd done, Emhyr could feel the heat of Geralt's body radiating through his formal clothes, as well as the hardness of Geralt's cock against his own. Emhyr pressed full-length against him and Geralt gave a happy little growl into Emhyr's mouth, arching into the contact. 

Emhyr got a hand on his hip, pushing him back, and Geralt yielded again, relaxing under Emhyr's touch. 

Emhyr could have him right here--could reach under his surcoat and unlace his beautifully tailored trousers and get his hand on Geralt's cock. He could make Geralt come right now, make him fall apart while Emhyr watched. He could probably strip Geralt naked and fuck him against the wall, and Geralt wouldn't be likely to object. Emhyr drew back just far enough to meet Geralt's eyes, and saw no hesitation, no resistance--only a challenge.

Geralt had just reminded Emhyr, unequivocally if delightfully, of the folly of attempting to challenge him head-on unless Emhyr also had a battalion of cavalry behind him--and he did not propose to have anyone else involved in this campaign. 

The thought flickered through his mind of Geralt's Eskel, and whether he might be recruited rather than rivalled, but that was neither here nor there now. Eskel was not in Nilfgaard, and no one else in Nilfgaard should have the privilege of seeing Geralt like this. 

So: Emhyr would simply have to change the situation to his own advantage. 

"Not here," he said, and a lifetime's practice hid everything he felt under a tone of rasping sternness.

Geralt grinned, insolent as ever in the face of imperial authority, and Emhyr barely managed to keep from grinning back just as widely. He restrained the impulse to grab Geralt by his Order collar and merely took a grip on his surcoat, turning and walking away in the certainty that Geralt would follow.

Geralt followed.

Emhyr didn't break stride as he made for the nearest suitable private place--his own rooms were too far, but a couple of minutes' brisk walking brought them to the amber receiving room, which was used for audiences when he wished to create an air of privacy. No one in the palace would walk in while the door was shut for anything short of a full-scale invasion from the North arriving at the city walls. Even then, they would knock first.

It was small for a receiving room, made to feel smaller with heavy furniture and muffling tapestries on the windowless walls. This was one of the places in the palace that could get uncomfortably cold at any time of year, and always had a fire laid ready in the hearth accordingly.

"Geralt," Emhyr said, and gestured toward it with the hand not still keeping a firm grip on Geralt.

He'd scarcely spoken before Geralt raised a hand, crooking his fingers just so in the direction of the fire, and it burst into bright flame.

That gave enough light for Emhyr to see what he was doing when he opened a certain cupboard, which was usually kept stocked with all the little items one might possibly require when using this room. Sure enough, there was a little pot sitting on top of a soft folded cloth. Emhyr took both and turned to see Geralt standing by the fire, eyeing the rug consideringly with his fingers lingering at his buttons. 

"Yes, that will do nicely," Emhyr said, and Geralt looked up and flashed a toothy smile before he began to strip. 

Emhyr attended to his own clothing, forcing himself not to slow things down by becoming distracted. The thought of keeping his own clothes on while fucking Geralt flitted through his mind, but it turned to a shard of ice as soon as he pictured it; it would be far too much like what others had done, when they had Geralt in their power. 

Emhyr had collared Geralt to confer honor in showing people who he belonged to--never to choke him. 

Those thoughts cooled his blood by a small but necessary degree; if he'd been as on edge as he'd been leaving the ballroom he'd have spent without a touch, when he looked up and saw Geralt lounging in front of the fire. He was gloriously naked, except for the Order of the Moon, still draped over his shoulders and chest.

Emhyr heard himself make a low sound, nearly a growl, and Geralt grinned again and tilted his head, baring his teeth and his throat in thoroughly ambiguous invitation. Emhyr was there without any consciousness of moving, kneeling between Geralt's sprawled thighs. A tiny corner of his mind was working out how Geralt had managed to strip without removing the Order, or taken it off and put it back on in the few moments Emhyr had looked away.

The rest of Emhyr's attention was taken up with the man before him, under him, his hands stroking over Geralt's thighs, deliberately avoiding his cock, which stood up hard against his belly. Geralt's skin was hot and startlingly soft where it wasn't scarred, a thin layer over hard-corded muscle. 

"My wolf," Emhyr murmured, and leaned down to press a kiss to the center of Geralt's chest, framed by the links of the chain. 

It was only as his lips touched skin that he noticed the other thing Geralt was still wearing: his medallion, its fine chain overshadowed by the heavy links of the collar, the medallion itself tucked under the moon-and-sun pendant. Hidden from view, as it had been under Geralt's fine clothes tonight, but never, ever absent; whatever else he consented to be or to play at, Geralt was always, first and last and entirely, a witcher.

"Well," Geralt returned, as Emhyr met his eyes again. "You know what you call a wolf who wears a collar."

"Mm," Emhyr said, for that was what he would never call Geralt, nor make the mistake of believing Geralt to be. Wits of the court might dare to call him Emhyr's dog, and it would be folly for Emhyr to attempt to stop them saying it, but that would never make it less absurdly wrong. "I call it a wolf who has chosen not to bite the hand that bestows the collar."

Geralt moved almost faster than Emhyr could see, and certainly faster than he could react other than to make himself be still and unresisting. Geralt's hand was around his wrist, drawing Emhyr's hand up to Geralt's mouth--and Geralt set his teeth, gently but firmly, around the side of Emhyr's hand, a bite without force. 

The implications were perfectly clear: not only could Geralt bite down any time he chose, but the movement he made could as easily have been at Emhyr's throat, or any other part of him. Emhyr was defenseless against the sheer physical power of the man under him--and yet Geralt still lay under him, legs spread to make room for him, and Emhyr's skin remained whole. Even with a collar on Geralt was a wolf, indeed, and any man who thought to tame him would be as much a fool as a villain.

"Just so." Emhyr raised his other hand to caress Geralt's cheek. Geralt's teeth tightened, though still nowhere near inflicting real pain; Emhyr kept his touch just as light, stroking his thumb over the line of Geralt's cheekbone, waiting him out, though Emhyr's heart raced wildly. This step could not be rushed. 

Geralt's teeth tightened on his skin, testing, warning, or perhaps just dragging out the moment. They were scarcely touching and still Emhyr felt every pulse of his heart throb in his cock, hard as it was. He had had entire sexual encounters that were less erotically charged than this moment with Geralt under him and Geralt's teeth on his skin. He could not break his gaze from Geralt's, but he suspected that Geralt's own interest was equally arrested.

Finally Geralt released the bite, and licked over the imprint of his teeth; Emhyr shuddered, letting out a tiny groan at the cruel tease. Geralt huffed a laugh over his almost painfully sensitized skin, and then tipped his head back, showing his throat and looking at Emhyr through his eyelashes, as much a predator as ever. "Fuck me, then. No fiddling around being nice about it, just slick yourself up and fuck me."

Emhyr raised his eyebrows and considered the proposition. Geralt sounded in no way uncertain, and certainly not anything like he had that first awful night, when he had responded to the demand for sex he expected from Emhyr with defiant goading. He did not even sound like he had at various times over the past week, when he'd found ways to suggest fucking which were easy for Emhyr to turn aside--half-joking, or phrased so that it was obvious he expected to be refused. He'd been content to let Emhyr direct things, and Emhyr had felt quite free to continue his campaign of maximum pleasure upon Geralt in the absence of real opposition.

Geralt had told him what he wanted now, and had not invited quibbles or questions about whether he was sure, whether he was ready, whether it would hurt. Emhyr could give him what he wanted, or he could fail to give him what he wanted, and Emhyr did not like to fail. 

"As my dear witcher requires," Emhyr murmured, opening the little pot of salve. He kept his eyes on Geralt's as he did, and caught the little startled widening; he had anticipated argument.

Emhyr bared his own teeth, pleased as ever to have achieved surprise, and slicked himself as he'd been directed. He kept his gaze on Geralt, watching for any sign that he'd _wanted_ some argument, some further opportunity for negotiation. 

All he saw was Geralt's dark, hot gaze steady on him, and Geralt's smile twisting to something filthily pleased, while Geralt hooked one leg firmly around the backs of Emhyr's thighs, keeping him in place. That was confirmation enough. Emhyr dropped his hands, one slippery and one clean, to Geralt's thighs, guiding him to the necessary angle, and finally looked down only to line himself up, guiding his cock to where they both wanted it. 

Emhyr's breathing hitched, not quite letting out a sound, when the head of his cock pressed against that place. A fine shudder ran through Geralt's entire body, including a flexing of muscle where they touched. Emhyr wasn't aware of pushing, but he felt Geralt's opening give way by some tiny fraction, just enough to make it clear that he could. 

One more breath, a last effort to muster his self-control, and then Emhyr thrust forward, pushing into Geralt's body. For the first few seconds it felt impossible--Geralt was tight around him to the point that it was painful for _Emhyr_ , never mind Geralt--but when Emhyr looked up to see Geralt's face, he caught sight of an expression of concentration. He saw it release all at once, at the same time he felt Geralt give way to him entirely, the muscles of that hot inner passage easing up to welcome him in.

The rest was a long slick glide. Emhyr had a flicker of a thought about being careful, and then glanced up again to see Geralt's teeth still bared in a grin, challenging as ever, still rejecting the idea of Emhyr _fiddling around being nice about it_.

Very well. Emhyr braced a hand on Geralt's shoulder, pinning him down as he drew back, and then he thrust in hard, again and again and again, until the room was filled with the sounds of rough breathing and the wet slap of flesh on flesh. Geralt pushed back eagerly onto Emhyr's cock every time, inviting him into another dance, even more primitive than the one with knives. 

Emhyr let his eyes fall closed, let himself forget everything else--how it looked, and what it meant, and even the perpetual question of what Geralt was thinking. He got lost in the incredible, glorious sensations, the meeting of their bodies in the oldest of rhythms. 

When he felt the end coming he reached down with the hand not bearing his weight and got a grip on Geralt's cock, as hard as it had ever been and throbbing hotly in his hold. Geralt's movements immediately altered, so that he was alternately pushing into Emhyr's hand and back onto his cock.

Neither of them lasted long after that, which was good, because Emhyr didn't think he could have kept up that pace for much longer. Long enough, though. Geralt came under him, around him, and then he could let himself finish--couldn't have helped finishing, with Geralt spilling over his hand and tightening on his cock in matched pulses. 

As he had the day before, Emhyr let himself rest on top of Geralt while he caught his breath. With his ear to Geralt's chest he could hear the steady thump of a witcher's heart--far slower than Emhyr's own was racing but, he thought, a little fast by Geralt's standards. He ought to do more--Geralt would want to get off at least once more--but he could rest here for a moment first, before they relocated to his rooms. His bed, perhaps, though he knew it wasn't really late. The dancing--and the fierce rush of emotion that had driven it--and the sex had all combined to leave him feeling a bit drained.

Emhyr let his eyes close when Geralt draped both arms over his back and hooked a leg over his thighs. Geralt clearly didn't mind the idea of staying a while. Emhyr found himself breathing in time with Geralt, and the racing of his own heart settled toward the steady rhythm under his ear. 

He was nearly dozing when Geralt lurched into sudden motion. Emhyr was abruptly lying on his side, the fire quite close behind him, and Geralt's body a wall in front of him--between him and the door--every muscle tight as a tripwire. Geralt had his silver seax in hand, and Emhyr realized that he must have left it strategically within reach when he stripped; Emhyr's own steel blade was hanging off the back of a chair in the corner. He spent a moment feeling foolish and careless and then remembered that they were in the middle of his palace with a full complement of imperial guards on duty, and anyway he had a witcher between him and whatever was outside that door.

Somehow he was not entirely persuaded that there was no cause for concern.

* * *

By the time Geralt was poised over Emhyr with his big silver knife in hand, he was mostly sure that his instinctive reaction had been only a reflex. He'd been so relaxed, so thoroughly off his guard, that the tiniest hint that something wasn't as it should be had him reacting like a shying horse. 

On the other hand, he was lying here with Emhyr var Emreis, and the chain on Geralt's shoulders didn't only mean that he had earned that fucking he could still feel pleasantly reverberating through his body. He was also the last man between Emhyr and anything that could get that far--and as he waited, frozen with every sense trained on the door and the space beyond it, he found he could think of a lot of ways something might get this far.

Practically every noble in the city was in the palace tonight--which meant they were already past most of the layers of guards that normally kept them out. Geralt knew, though Emhyr and Ciri were both pretty nonchalant about it, that there was some degree of opposition to the idea of Ciri succeeding Emhyr, and probably some people who still weren't reconciled to Emhyr himself on the throne. 

And now Emhyr and Ciri had rubbed their favoritism toward a notorious Nordling mutant in every single one of those noble faces. Geralt himself had played right along with that, making it clear that Emhyr favored him above anyone in Nilfgaard, playing around like he didn't have a care in the world or a brain in his head. 

It could have pushed someone over the edge. The area they'd come to was night-quiet, unpopulated; the right person could get past whatever guards there were between the ballroom and here. If they'd thought ahead, if they'd known to plan for Geralt's presence, they might even be smart enough not to try to rush a door with a witcher on the other side. A finely-ground poison blown into the room under the door, contaminating the air...

Geralt heard a few more small sounds, and inhaled deeply, searching for informative scents. He had to mentally filter out the intoxicating scent of bodies and sex, which he'd been half drunk on since Emhyr brought him out of the ballroom. Beyond that, faint and far away...

The picture Geralt was constructing abruptly turned to something much less alarming, but there was still no reason to be careless. He glanced over his shoulder at Emhyr, who, he realized, was keeping himself perfectly still, poised between Geralt and the fire, making no sound to distract Geralt from his assessment of the situation. 

Geralt's heart did something funny at the sight of Emhyr taking him and his expertise so seriously, especially with his estimation of the threat plummeting. Especially since Emhyr probably knew perfectly well who and what was outside, because this sort of thing happened all the time for him. He still looked entirely serious and met Geralt's eyes steadily, waiting for a decision. 

Right. No sense taking chances until he was very sure--and no need for anyone to catch sight of their Emperor naked, even in the best case scenario. Geralt jerked his chin toward the corner where Emhyr's clothes--and his steel blade--waited, which wouldn't be immediately in sight of anyone outside. Emhyr nodded, and moved when Geralt did, keeping behind Geralt as Geralt went to the door. 

When Emhyr reached the corner, Geralt heard a whisper of steel, and looked up to see Emhyr holding his own knife with a questioning look. 

Geralt nodded, and Emhyr tossed the blade. Geralt caught it readily, and then wrapped one hand around the hilts of both knives, turning the blades back along his forearm in a knife-fighter's hold. Covering the gap with his body, Geralt finally eased the door inward by a few inches.

There was no one in the corridor.

What was in the corridor was an elegant little folding table--the same kind the servants would bring to Emhyr's rooms when he and Geralt were playing cards and had left nowhere for the servants to set out wine and food. Possibly it was literally the same table; it looked very familiar. 

The resemblance was helped by a particularly bountiful version of an evening's snacks and drinks--a five-tiered stand held plates in graduated sizes, each packed with an assortment of bite-sized food. Geralt recognized about half of it from the plates the footman had brought him--clearly some more goodies had come out of the kitchen in the last hour or two. 

There were also two bottles of wine and two glasses. Geralt would bet anything that one bottle was the red Emhyr usually enjoyed of an evening, and which Geralt normally shared with him instead of asking for something else, and the other was that favorite of Geralt's they'd served him in the ballroom. 

Geralt glanced back over his shoulder again at a little sound, and saw Emhyr hadn't bothered to get dressed and was already padding toward him. He'd obviously seen in the set of Geralt's shoulders, and the way he just stood there staring, that there was nothing to fear after all.

"Ah," Emhyr said, pressing up against Geralt's back and wrapping an arm around his middle, chin on Geralt's shoulder to peek out through the barely-open door. Geralt was still holding two blades in one hand, but Emhyr's body was warm and relaxed against him, unmistakably signaling his trust. "Yes, that was the other possibility. Shall we bring that inside?"

Geralt glanced out at the food again, and his stomach twisted, reminding him that he'd only had three-quarters of that dainty little plate before dancing for more than an hour straight. 

Realization struck, and Geralt turned his head to swipe a quick kiss against Emhyr's mouth. "You promised I'd get to eat. You told them..." 

Someone had tracked him and Emhyr down in this out-of-the-way room and delivered all this, when normally they waited for Emhyr to request food, because they had an order to look after _Geralt_. Because Emhyr had wanted him to enjoy this night.

Emhyr laughed softly, and rubbed his hand over Geralt's belly. "Well, then, let me not fail to keep my word." 

Geralt turned away from the door to kiss him, and drop both knives out of the way, breathing in the warm sweat-and-sex smell of Emhyr before he went to get the food. He might be a Nordling barbarian, but he wasn't going to send the Emperor out naked to fetch his snacks--not when he could go out naked and do it quicker himself.

"This was good," Geralt murmured against his mouth. "We should do this again sometime."

Emhyr laughed, and was still laughing when Geralt darted out into the corridor.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Nemo Saltat Sobrius](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25016503) by [greedy_dancer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greedy_dancer/pseuds/greedy_dancer)




End file.
